


The Flower King

by WindSurfBabe



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26155654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindSurfBabe/pseuds/WindSurfBabe
Summary: Years after King Elessar’s passing, the laughter and music of the elves do not grace mortal ears anymore. The woods stand silent; the time of Men has come. But an elf lingers in his father’s realm. His choice is finally made.
Relationships: Elrohir (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer: I do not own anything that obviously comes from Tolkien's work.

\- Chapter 1 -

The Hoarwell has its source high in the Misty Mountains, and its waters carry the cold gathered during the journey through the icy peaks. It flows deep and dark, through the plains of Eriador, until it finally joins the Bruinen.

Before this crossing, in a peaceful valley, lies the small human settlement of Black Oak. It is of no strategic importance whatsoever, claimed by neither shadow nor resistance's forces during the War of the Ring. Only echoes of the battle had reached the village folk, who make their living from the earth, like their fathers and their fathers' fathers before them. Not much has changed for these people since Sauron's fall and the arrival of Elessar to the throne of Gondor.

At one time, the villagers saw to see elves dancing in clearings in the nearby forests, or heard their enchanting songs in the evenings. But elves have since left these shores, and no more do the people of Black Oak remember them, or mention them other than in their legends. Those wondrous creatures, the race of the Firstborn, are now said to be a myth, the tales of encounters blamed on their ancestors' credulity and primitive beliefs.

Little did the inhabitants of Black Oak know that the legends were about to resurface.

* * *

The first rays of the morning sun glided lazily up the white peaks of the Misty Mountains. Once over this obstacle, the light poured down into the valley like water out of a broken dam. The sun invaded Black Oak, glistening on the slate roofs moist with dew.

Above the village, on a small hill unclaimed by farmers and overgrown with tall, yellow grass spared by a kind winter, stood an ancient oak tree, the namesake of the settlement. Its roots ran deep into the earth, its leaves remembered the songs of the Eldar that the wind used to carry.

In the shadow of the tree, leaning against its massive trunk, sat a man shrouded from head to toe in a dark cloak. Hidden from curious eyes by the curtain of grass, he watched the village, his long pale fingers playing distractedly with an early flower.

The air above the plain was beginning to shimmer with the upcoming heat, and the first day of spring promised to be exceptionally sunny and warm. The ground was cold, though, as the silhouette noted with distaste. He jumped slightly as an identical silhouette emerged from behind him, and sat down as well.

'What are you doing?' asked the newcomer in a low voice.

The watcher wrinkled his nose in annoyance. 'Dancing and singing, brother, can you not tell?'

His brother cocked an eyebrow under his hood. 'I have seen you come here for nearly twenty years,' he said. 'And still I don't understand what you find so interesting in this settlement.' His keen eyes scanned the village and its surroundings. 'Well, it's certainly not hostile,' he said, as the first watcher remained stubbornly silent. 'And I can see no strategic asset…' He glanced at his brother in annoyance. 'By the stars, Elrohir, what is it that you find so fascinating?'

'Be quiet!' hissed Elrohir, swatting him on the arm. He continued to watch the settlement, noting how it seemed to spring to life, the people starting their day and their work. His brother shifted impatiently beside him, obviously expecting an explanation; none came, so he settled down beside Elrohir, silent and unmoving. If his thousands of years had taught him something, it was patience.

As the sun crossed the sky, nearing its solstice, Elrohir suddenly leaned forward, seemingly drawn to what was happening in the village. Awakened from his own reverie, Elladan followed his gaze.

The door of one of the shabbier-looking houses opened, and a small figure emerged, pulling a wooden pail too heavy for its form. The gait was crooked and irregular, and the young woman – for it was a young woman, almost still a girl – struggled with the weight of the bucket.

Elrohir's heart constricted painfully in his chest, as always, at the sight of the crippled girl in the plain below. Guilt washed over him once again in a powerful and crushing wave. If only he had been more careful that night, if only he had listened to his twin and Glorfindel…

Elladan frowned, his eyes going from his brother to the girl. 'A mortal?' he said. 'Please, Elrohir, tell me it's not what I think it is.'

The watcher sighed, and ran a thin, pale hand though his dark hair. 'I wish I could tell you what you want to hear,' he sighed. 'But you have guessed right.'

His brother pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture so alike to his father. 'Elrohir,' he almost growled, 'She is mortal.'

The other elf smiled sadly. 'She is.'

Elladan cocked an eyebrow. 'I am not sure whether your lack of concern on the matter is a good or a very bad sign,' he said. 'But I certainly hope you are not serious.'

Elrohir rose to his feet and checked that their presence had remained unnoticed. He needed not worry; the young woman seemed in too much trouble with her task to notice anything else. 'In fact I am, brother' he said quietly. Elladan's reaction, though annoying, had been foreseen, and showed nothing else than the intense brotherly love the two elven twins shared. It pained Elrohir to realize his brother would guess his intentions any minute now – and he knew what would follow. He heard distinctly the screech as Elladan gritted his teeth.

'Brother,' Elladan hissed, leaping to his feet and catching Elrohir's arm in a vise-like grip. 'Tell me you are not thinking about following Arwen's footsteps.'

'Not here, Elladan,' growled Elrohir, shaking his brother hand away. He cast one long, regretful look towards the village, and started to walk down the small hill. Elladan followed without a word more, but his impatient silence promised a long and unpleasant discussion once out of reach of human ears.

* * *

The Hall of Fire was deserted. Night had descended upon Imladris, and the long shadows cast by the flames seemed to fill the room, reminiscent of the evenings once held in the Last Homely House; memories of happier times. Elladan squatted by the fireplace, kindling the fire until it warmed up the chill air of the empty hall.

'A solemn place to talk, brother,' noted Elrohir dryly as he discarded the cloak – a precaution against human eyes, more for their protection than his.

'And it is a grave matter we must speak of,' countered his twin. 'Hence my choice.' He settled down into one of the chairs; Elrohir sat down beside him, stretching his legs towards the flames. They remained silent for a while; choosing their words as one would plan a battle. Finally Elladan spoke. 'For how long has it been going on?'

His brother snorted. 'Brother, you are talking of it as if it were some crime.' Elladan's gaze darkened, but he didn't comment; Elrohir chose to answer. 'A year,' he whispered.

'And you never told me.'

'I expected your reaction.'

Elladan glanced at him sharply. 'And still you persisted.'

Elrohir bit back an angry retort, suppressing the urge to tell his brother that he was free to do whatever pleased him. He knew that only concern and fear dictated Elladan's smothering protectiveness and that, were it his twin who walked on the edge of mortality, he, Elrohir, would have reacted in the same panicked manner. 'I did not choose, Elladan,' he explained instead. 'I am not my heart's master anymore; therefore I must yield to its desires.'

'And you desire to die?' Elrohir inhaled sharply at the question, and glanced at his brother in reproach. Elladan caught his stare. 'I am sorry,' he said softly. 'But you must understand that this reminds me rather painfully of memories that I'd rather not awaken.'

'I know.' The thoughts of Arwen hung in the air between them. 'I miss her too. But I am beginning to understand her point of view.'

Elladan shifted in his seat. 'Eärendil,' he murmured, 'I am beginning to wonder whether it is not a curse, this choice of ours.'

'Or a way to test us more…' Elrohir sighed. 'I am sorry for your pain, brother. But a choice lies before me: suffer, or have you suffer instead.' He smiled wryly. 'It appears that I am a very selfish being.'

'Or sadistic.'

'True.'

The two brothers sat in silence, reflections of one another; but that mirror was beginning to shatter. 'Promise me you will think about it,' said Elladan suddenly. 'This is not a decision one should make lightly.' He held up his hand as Elrohir frowned in annoyance. 'Peace, brother. Hear me out. If you choose to remain with me, I will be happy; selfish as it sounds, I know you will consider it. And one day we will sail, and see _adar_ and _naneth_ again. Do you not miss them? In Valinor, your feeling will remain, pure and alive. You can carry her memory over the sea, and love her forever.'

Elrohir could not deny it; he remained silent.

'If you stay… True, you will see her. But what certainty do you have that she will return your feelings? And if she does… She is human. Not everyone is as constant in their feelings as Estel was. One day she will tire of the newness and the magic of elven love; she will leave you, and you will be left – alone, for I can not bear to remain and witness it – to wither away and die. Remember what human death means, Elrohir. It is a lonely, painful agony that seems to have no end; your body refuses to obey your mind and betrays you in the most humiliating ways. You will crawl, you will weep, and die. And never see your family again, as we will never see you. If not for your own sake, then for ours – reconsider it. Have we not lost enough already?'

 _Arathorn_. _Estel_. _Arwen_.

The faces of those loved and lost flashed in Elrohir's mind. Elladan was right, of course.

'I will think about it,' he conceded half-heartedly, and his twin smiled.

'It is all I can ask,' he said softly.


	2. Chapter 2

\- Chapter 2 -

Wyn hoisted the heavy bucket of water onto the stone edge of the well, praying that it would not fall down like the previous one. Of all her chores, she abhorred most getting water. The well was in the centre of the village, in full view of all the people, and as she dragged the full bucket across the green, her already disgraceful walk worsened to the point of ridicule by the weight in her arms, and the sniggers and stares followed her.

She ignored them, struggling to get the bucket home without losing too much water: otherwise she'd just have to do it again. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, and set the pail on the table.

Wyn fumbled through the shelves, searching for something that could be prepared as a midday meal. She wrinkled her nose in disappointment as she laid out the results of her quest: three potatoes sadly stared back at her. She sighed. Their food supplies were gone, and who knew when they'd get an income again? Their land had been at peace ever since the War of the Ring, protected and prosperous under the King's reign. People only rarely bought weapons, now, and with only a few horses in the village, the forge usually stood empty.

She shrugged. Best was not to think about it too much, and enjoy what they had. Three potatoes was better than nothing; she should be able to make something out of them.

Her father, the blacksmith of the village, entered the small cottage just when she had finished preparing the meal. Wyn noticed the haunted, tired look in his eyes that he had been wearing for a few years, now ; the despair, only slightly hidden from his daughter, when he returned with empty hands once again.

Wyn felt her heart ache for him; if only she wasn't crippled, she might've been married already, and not be such a burden. She had seen on many occasions her friends flirting with the young men; some of them were actively courted, with a marriage expected soon. Wyn knew that it would never be like that, for her. No sane man would ever want a wife with a deformed body; and even without that, no man would ever marry a girl deemed simple-minded.

Wyn had earned that reputation years ago, when she still was a little girl who liked to listen to the stories her grandmother told her. Her father's mother was of old blood, it was said, and knew of legends and tales that had long been forgotten. In the evenings, when little Wyn was to go to sleep, her grandmother would sit on the edge of her bed and tell her of dragons and wolves, of dwarves and elves.

Elves. The little girl had been fascinated by them ever since the old lady had first uttered their name. So much, in fact, that she had believed the prophecy that her grandmother had made up for her: 'One day, little one,' had the woman said, cradling Wyn in her arms, 'a tall and beautiful elf will come for you. He'll ride a white horse, the most magnificent beast ever, with flowers in its mane.' The little girl had gaped at her, eyes shining at the perspective. 'My Lady, he will say, long have I travelled to find you. Will you come with me and be my bride?'

The next day, Wyn had told everyone she would marry an elf, even getting into a fight with a boy who had declared they didn't exist. She had cried, as her father had tended gently to her split lip. 'He will come, Da, I know it!' The smith hadn't had the heart to crush her dreams. _She'll grow out of it_ , he had thought, and Wyn did.

But the villagers remembered. They spoke good-naturedly of the simple, kind Wyn: _She's a good girl, that one – a bit dim in the head, but she's got a good heart…_

That was what she was: a good girl.

Wyn had ceasd to envy her friends when they flirted with boys. Boys didn't flirt with Wyn. She had come to understand her position in the small society that was their village: she was the one who helped, who comforted and complimented. The peace-keeper.

Wyn and her father devoured their meager meal, and the blacksmith kissed his daughter's forehead before walking out the door. 'Pa!' she called after him, and he turned around. 'It will be alright, Pa!' she smiled reassuringly. 'We will make it.' He smiled sadly in return, and walked away.

* * *

The river flowed lazily under the summer sky, winding through the green plain. Its waters carried the traditional gift at this time of the year: crowns of flowers, wound by the girls of the settlement. The weather itself seemed to celebrate with the villagers: warm and fragrant, it invited for a walk barefoot in the fields, for a swim under the setting sun.

Elrohir sat on his small hill overlooking the village. He stretched out his long legs, considering for a second the idea of removing his leather boots to feel the grass tickle his feet; but the tempting perspective was rejected. He sighed softly and looked down towards the small settlement again.

The day seemed alike in each aspect to the dozens of others spent here, under the oak tree, watching the girl. The way the rays of the sun reflected on the waters of the Hoarwell, the smell of the grass and its soft rustle in the wind... It felt as though Elrohir had been sitting there for decades. Nothing changed, and nothing would for a long time; only men would age, die and be born, in accordance with their short lifetimes.

She would age.

Elrohir discarded the thought. He had come to his vantage point almost every day since it had happened, watching the girl from afar, seeing her grow up and blossom into a pretty young woman… Again, the stab of guilt in his chest. The humans she lived with did not see her the way he did, her mangled leg blocking everything else from their narrow minds. To them, she was ugly and funny to watch, as she waddled from her house to wherever it was she was headed. He had helped, sometimes, the best he could: putting some food into the larder when the family was sleeping, throwing some coins into dusty corners where he knew they would be found, and accepted as having rolled away from the table. Always little things, that made him feel like a monster of selfishness and greed. He could have done so much more, if he had dared to...

It could have been different, he mused. He could have provided for all her needs, seen her happy and well-fed… Imladris could have been filled with a child's laughter again.

Then his view of her had changed abruptly. It had been after a particularly uneventful scouting patrol, which Glorfindel insisted on perpetuating despite the peaceful times. Elrohir had run all the way back, trying to wear himself out, to get rid of the pent-up energy accumulated through weeks of peace and idleness. He had stopped to drink from the ice cold waters of the Hoarwell before crossing, thinking of checking on his protégée at the same time. After quenching his thirst he had looked up, and seen her. And realized that she wasn't a child anymore. He had watched, entranced by the graceful movements of her small, thin hands as she did her washing, the swaying of her hips only slightly lopsided – he had grown accustomed to her step - the fullness of her lips… Instantly, his heart had felt warm in his chest, his blood ran like molten metal in his veins, scorching, demanding. It was not fondness, not guilt. It was desire.

After that day, he had come to watch her with different purposes, feeling utterly miserable when he couldn't make it to the oak tree. She didn't even know of his existence, and there he was, hoping that something would ever come out of it. He _needed_ to see her.

Now, after a year, his decision was mostly made, only a small part of him still afraid of losing the safety of his immortal heritage. It was as if seeing her reminded him of why he had questioned his immortality in the first place...

The feast was now in full swing. Huge pieces of meat were roasting above the bonfires; the flames hissed when the dripping grease touched them, sending sparks at the merry passers-by. In the only tavern of the village, ale flowed, and ancient songs were sung, to thank the Valar and celebrate the return of spring.

Elrohir leaned forward when a group of maidens walked out onto the village green, laughing and casting flirty glances at the young men. Most of them were pretty, in a simple and healthy way: pink-cheeked and fair-haired, their hips swinging suggestively under their dresses, even though some of them hadn't realised yet the effect it had on the opposite sex. The watcher watched them go with mild curiosity; they were not what he was waiting for.

As the group moved away from the settlement, and to the river, a small form emerged from one of the shabbier houses, and hurried awkwardly to join them. Elrohir froze, watching raptly as the girl limped to the river bank, where she was greeted by her friends. She seemed well, he decided, and reasonably happy. As always, he felt a pang of guilt about measuring her happiness by his own standards; after all, what did he know about being crippled? But his keen eyes saw her smile, his ears heard her laughter when she plucked the tiny flowers from the ground and wove their stems into a green tress.

A small frown darkened her pretty face when she cast the crown into the water; unlike her healthy friends, she knew that it wouldn't float to a betrothed. But happiness is contagious, and soon she was smiling again. Behind his curtain of tall grass, the elf relaxed.

Suddenly, he wished he could have her crown, catch it in the current and keep it with him. Something made by her, wearing the imprint of her small fingers and maybe, if he held it to his chest, he could feel a ghost of that touch against his skin? The very idea was silly, but the desire was too powerful to be easily forgotten, and he decided to indulge it. After all, what harm could it bring?

Elladan's warning flashed through his mind, his brother's pained eyes a reminder of the consequences of his choice. But it was not Elladan's life. And his decision was made; it had been for a long time, his fear that of admitting it.

He thought quickly. Given the flow, and the many turns the river took, he could still catch up with his little treasure. Pushing himself off the ground, Elrohir glanced one last time towards the settlement: the maidens were returning to the feast, the limping girl on their heels.

Elrohir took off towards the South at a leisurely pace, towards the lower reaches, while the setting sun slowly painted the waters red.


	3. Chapter 3

\- Chapter 3 -

Elrohir's boots squelched as he walked, every step leaving a puddle of muddy water on the ground of floors of the Last Homely House. He imagined, half amused, half horrified, the reaction of his father's chief advisor, the dignified Erestor. The elf lord, long since gone along with Elrond to the Undying Lands, had considered it an insult to besmirch in any way the beauty of the Halls; a crime that seconded only narrowly to bad treatment of books. But this time, it was not a just punishment that he attempted to avoid; his effort to step lightly was largely spoiled by the wet noise he produced, and he expected Elladan to jump out of every corridor, arms crossed in consternation.

Elrohir had promised to reconsider his feelings. To run them over and over again in his head, to figure out what it was exactly that drew him to the village – and to her. But he was loathe to do so. Somehow it felt wrong, as if his love was a mystery better left unsolved, to be savoured without reservation. It was a feeling so natural, to care; he had felt it from the first instant he had seen the girl, as if a previously unknown part of him had awakened, an organ that he had instantly learned how to use.

 _Maybe we have spent too much time with the Edain_ , he thought, remembering his brother Estel. Or Elessar, the name he had been crowned under; the name carved on his grave. Somehow, the noble King of Men would forever remain, in his memory, a mischievous little boy who once used to climb into his bed at night, scared of the darkness of his room.

'Brother.' Elrohir froze, wincing as his boots squeaked in protest; his hand reached into his pocket.

He turned around and smiled sheepishly. 'Elladan.' His brother looked at him with reproach, taking in his damp clothes and disheveled hair. 'By the stars, what happened to you?'

Elrohir grinned. 'I took a swim, brother. The weather's exceptionally warm, haven't you noticed?' He gestured to the night sky outside.

Elladan pursed his lips. 'So you have broken your word.'

Elrohir stifled a surge of annoyance. _Nosy ellon_ , he thought. _Why can you not mind your own business?_ Spinning on his heels, he started to walk towards his rooms, hoping to avoid a confrontation in the open of the Halls. The Last Homely House stood almost empty since its previous lord had taken the road West, but some had remained and, as Gandalf once put it, elves were a curious folk.

He knew too well why Elladan considered his love such a painful subject. His brother missed Arwen as much as he did: their sister had chosen mortality to remain by her beloved's side. Her decision had brought grief to the family, especially to their father, who had already lost – if temporarily – his wife on these shores. Elrond had been forced to choose: sail, and be reunited with Celebrían, or remain in Arda with Arwen, only to watch her wither and die. And when he finally faced his wife… What would he tell her?

Elrohir glanced at his brother, who was a perfect reflection of himself, his brow creased in worry. He wished he could make him understand.

Elladan followed him into the room, and watched sourly as Elrohir discarded the damp garments. 'You promised,' he reminded softly. 'That you would think about it.'

'I did!' exclaimed Elrohir. 'I did think about it, I _am_ thinking about it!' He tossed his tunic impatiently into a corner. 'Elladan, I see no point in thinking it over one more time. My feelings will not change.'

'How can you be so sure?'

His brother sat down on the bed. 'I cannot,' agreed Elrohir. He walked to the window. The valley was peaceful in the night, lit up by a few scarce fires scattered in the darkness like fireflies. The settlement was quiet, unlike the cheerful evenings that used to be held several centuries ago. Too few remained; the time of the elves was gone.

'What would you have me do?' he murmured. 'Sit on my immortality like a dragon on his treasure ? Our time is over. When the last of our race sails, the people will forget us. And life will go on, while we will dwell – forever unchanged – in Valinor, singing the same songs over and over again, living in the past of our glory. Our time is over, brother. We will never be great again.'

'I know.' Elladan sighed. 'Forgive me, brother.' He smiled sadly. 'I am being selfish and stubborn, but you must not blame me. I only seek to keep you alive, to keep you with me.' He followed Elrohir's glance to the valley below. 'I only want my brother to stay with me' he pleaded. 'For us to be a family again, Elrohir. You, me, _adar_ and _naneth_... Do you not wish to see her ?'

Elrohir closed his eyes. 'Elladan...' He almost felt guilty for choosing a stranger over his own blood, for denying his parents the family reunion for which they had longed for centuries. But that was Elladan's goal exactly. 'Do not play mind games with me, brother,' Elrohir breathed out. 'I will not yield, but I will certainly suffer. Is that what you wish?'

'No.' Elladan's grey eyes were full of sorrow. 'So you have chosen.'

'Yes,' replied Elrohir. 'Though the thought scares me.'

'Then there may still be time to change your mind?' joked his brother, the smile not reaching his eyes. Though his words held no real hope, the mood shifted, and Elrohir smiled in return. Once again, he reached into his pocket, feeling the wilted flowers under his fingers. Her crown, his destiny. Was it not the tradition?

'I suggest you take a bigger care to your treasure, Flower King,' called out Elladan. 'For it is falling apart.' Elrohir glanced to the ground at his feet; indeed, a few pale petals lay on the stone, wrinkled and abused by their rescue from the river. He pulled out the crown, careful to not break the fragile stems. They now wore his imprint, where he had grasped the crown.

'Take me to her,' said Elladan suddenly. Elrohir saw that he had stood, and his eyes were on the small bundle of green. His brother reached out and brushed his fingertips on the precious flowers; Elrohir fought the urge to close his hand. 'Show me,' Elladan said. 'Help me understand.'

* * *

Wyn laid out the two coins on the wooden counter: copper and steel, their last treasure until her father got a commission. The first one remained from his last client, a travelling merchant whose horse needed shoeing. The other had been found, to Wyn's greatest surprise, under the larder, during her monthly scrubbing of the small house. If it hadn't been the cottage they had lived in since her birth, the girl would've doubted it even belonged to them, but there it was, shining at her from the dusty floor…

The butcher glanced at the money somewhat skeptically; but he took it, and cut from the carcass the corresponding amount of meat. Wyn felt her mouth watering at the prospect of the meal that she could cook with it. Meat! They had not tasted any for some months now. She had considered sparing the money for harder times; but then times could not get much harder, and she and her father deserved a decent meal. Besides, it could make things easier, if Pa was in a good mood…

She thanked the man and, carefully laying the wrapped-up piece in her basket, she exited the shop.

As she crossed the village green, she saw Nora, one of her friends, hand in hand with her husband Thomas, and felt a pang of envy. Thomas was a baker's apprentice, thin as a wire and with a face full of freckles; but he was a good man, and the older girl seemed happy with him.

Sometimes, Wyn dreamt of a having a husband as well: someone with kind eyes, maybe someone who would make her laugh. She didn't dream of handsome. After all, what would such a man want with her? Wyn didn't fancy herself smart, and her childhood years had taught her that she was anything but pretty. It would only be a matter of time before such a man found in one of the other girls someone closer to his tastes and, no matter how reasonable it would seem, Wyn wouldn't bear the humiliation. She had taken much, over the years, grown herself a skin thicker than leather. But this…

No, she'd be perfectly content with only someone kind enough, who'd take care of her if something happened to her father, who'd want kids and a family, who'd cherish what he had.

Once at home she started preparing the meat, all her thoughts focused on her task so to avoid unpleasant day dreams. She was crippled, damaged, and considered a half-wit, if a good-hearted one. She should not even wish for such things; dreaming would only bring her pain.

She chided herself for those thoughts: after all, she was lucky to be still alive. She had a father who loved her and needed her, a roof above her head and friends. She hadn't been born a Queen, she decided, so she'd better behave accordingly.

The familiar creak of the door indicated that her father was home. She heard him sigh wearily as he sat down on one of their rickety chairs, and bit her lip, bracing herself for the small role she was about to play.

Turning around with a smile, she announced brightly: 'There's meat on the menu! A special treat for a special day; a lucky one, it seems…' With those words she put the pot full of meat stew on the table, and settled down.

Her father shook his head at her enthusiasm. 'My little Wyn,' he smiled, 'Always seeing the good side.'

Wyn forced herself to smile wider, and picked up her spoon. The stew was hot and nourishing, and felt like heaven in the mouth and the stomach. She doubted that any King's table would appeal more to her right then that this simple meal.

Between two spoonfuls she glanced at her father, noting the deep lines of worry and grief etched into the skin of his face, the weariness in his eyes. Gathering her courage, she set down her spoon. 'Pa…' she began, 'I have decided to look for work.'

He glanced at her sharply, probably wondering whether it was just another of her fantasies. She smiled reassuringly and laid her hand on his. 'The money is getting scarce,' she said. 'And I'm loathe to sit at home and watch you do all the work. I'd rather do something useful. But don't worry: I'm not leaving you…' she joked. 'Bessie told me the tavern's in need of help, so I thought I'd try my luck.'

Her father wiped his mouth; he seemed to refuse to look at her. 'Pa?'

The blacksmith sighed. 'Then we will just have to find another way,' he said, his smile strained. 'Won't we?' Affecting cheerfulness, he rose from his seat. 'There's plenty of work elsewhere; I'll think of something, don't you worry.'

'I don't want you to.'

The blacksmith spun around at his daughter's quiet words. Discarding the smile, Wyn rose from her seat and reached out for him, brushing her hand tenderly on his sun-tanned cheek. 'You always take care of me,' she whispered. 'But you can't do it all alone, Pa. And I want to help. Please.' He stiffened, but she embraced him, laying her head on his chest. 'You know there's no other way,' she said.

Reluctantly her father closed his arms around her. 'You are right,' he murmured, his voice laced with guilt and shame. 'As always. Forgive me; I had hoped to spare you this, but it seems I've failed.'

'Don't say that!' Wyn protested. It pained her when he depreciated himself, when he seemed to forget the efforts it cost him to overcome Mum's death and to raise her all by himself. Not once had he blamed the child for his wife's passing, always welcoming her with open arms when she came back home in tears, tired and frightened by the other kids' pranks and taunts.

Pulling herself from the embrace, she pushed up on her tip-toes and kissed his stubble-grown cheek. 'You are a wonderful, marvellous father. Please, don't worry for me!' She smiled encouragingly. 'I promise you, I'll be fine.'

And she really, really hoped she would.


	4. Chapter 4

\- Chapter 4 -

The village tavern turned out to be a small cottage, chosen for this role essentially for its strategic emplacement in the heart of the settlement. As the sun disappeared slowly behind the hill, the villagers returned from their labour in the fields and poured into the tavern, the sole distraction offered in this quiet valley.

Elrohir pushed the wooden door and was immediately overwhelmed by the stench characteristic to this kind of establishment: sweat, urine and unwashed bodies mixed up with stale food. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, fighting the urge to breathe through his mouth. Behind him, Glorfindel swore. The elf lord had been adamant about accompanying them, for reasons not entirely clear. He had insisted that he would never live it down should anything happen to his protégés, but Elrohir suspected that the great warrior was simply bored.

The small group made its way to a free table in the corner, each elf pulling a chair so that their backs were granted protection by the wall – an old habit from more disturbed times. Neither of them removed their hoods; they knew that men were starting to forget the Firstborn's existence, and didn't want to draw too much attention to themselves. The other clients of the tavern watched them enter with open curiosity and distrust. But they were a peaceful folk, and decided to leave the impolite strangers in peace.

Elladan gestured to a tired-looking serving wench – the only word that came to mind, given the generous amount of flesh revealed by her bodice – and ordered a pitcher of wine. There was none, and the elves settled for ale. Elrohir refrained from specifically asking for clean mugs: such luxury was probably not comprised in the establishment's services.

The woman brought them their drinks, her hungry eyes boring into each elf, in hope of a tip, or more... Elrohir noted that she must've been pretty, in her younger days, but her work had ripped all illusions from her, her dreams of love withering away in the stifling tavern. Years had drawn hard, bitter lines on her skin. She was desperate, Elrohir realized, shuddering. Aging and alone, she was on a hunt for a husband, and she'd settle for anyone with some coin and a house. And she couldn't be more than fourty...

He reminded himself that not everyone had the luxury of Long Years to find a partner in life.

Glorfindel peered into his cup, then upturned it with a grimace. A cockroach stretched its legs happily and trotted to the edge of the table. Noticing Elladan's mocking stare, he shrugged: 'I'm not hungry.'

Resigned, Elrohir wiped his cup with his cloak, as discreetly as he could, in order not to upset the tavern owner. To his surprise, the ale was decent, though it could not be compared to the Dorwinion once sent to his father by the King of Mirkwood. It had been the best year of the best vintage of Middle-earth: a royal present indeed. Beside him, Glorfindel's heavy sigh seemed to indicate that he was remembering it, too.

As the tavern filled up with customers and drunkards, the people around them appeared to accept that the group of strangers posed no threat, and seemed to forget their existence. What is more, their curiosity was given a new target. Elrohir tensed, his cup frozen halfway to his mouth, when the door opened and a familiar silhouette limped to the counter. He felt his brother's inquisitive glance, but all his attention was on the girl.

She glanced around nervously, tugging on her skirts, until the tavern owner – a big, red-faced man – noticed her presence. 'What can I do for you, lass?' he inquired, setting down the mug he was wiping. The girl shifted on her feet. 'I...' She glanced around, her gaze stopping for an instant on their table; Elrohir's heart skipped a beat.

'I'm looking for work,' she said finally, and gestured to the crowded room. 'I came to ask whether you needed another serving girl.'

Someone snorted in the back of the room, and Elrohir spun to see who. The hilarity was picked up, and the whole tavern was soon roaring with laughter. Elrohir growled, rage blurring his vision; almost unconsciously, he started to rise, a hand snaking to the sword beneath his cloak, but Elladan's iron grip kept him sitting. 'Easy, brother,' hissed his twin.

The girl blushed crimson and clenched her teeth, waiting patiently until the laughter died down. 'I'll do anything,' she murmured. 'Serving, cleaning, washing... Anything.' Her voice was quiet and full of dignity; her eyes desperate.

Through his anger, Elrohir felt cold. She would never make it... She would never be able, no matter how determined she was, to keep up the pace. Not with her crippled leg. Each evening she would suffer unimaginable agony, and endure the clients' stupid, cruel jokes. Elrohir could imagine too well what the people could find amusing to do to her: push her to see her stumble to regain her compromised balance, make her trip and fall, cheering as she picked up the broken crockery off the floor...

The tavern owner seemed to agree with him. 'Sorry, lass,' he said, gesturing to the breathless, sweaty girls running to and from the counter, their arms laden with heavy pitchers and mugs. 'Hard work, serving. And you...' He hesitated. 'No offense, but I don't believe you'll be able to keep up.' He shook his head. 'Sorry.'

'Please!' The girl lunged forward and caught the man's sleeve; the ungraceful effort would have been comical if it wasn't so desperate. 'Please, sir! I really need the money. I will work hard, just try me.' Her voice dropped in volume, turning into a painful whisper. 'Please. I beg you.'

The tavern owner hesitated, and Elrohir's lips moved, as if he could make him speak. 'No, no!' he murmured. 'Can't you see? It'll kill her...'

But his words remained unheard as the man sighed. 'Fine,' he conceded, cautiously freeing his sleeve from the girl's grip. 'I need someone to wash the dishes on the evening shift.' He eyed her critically. 'It won't be easy either.'

'I'll manage!' The girl beamed at him, so breathtaking in her naive joy. 'Thank you, sir! You won't regret it, I promise!' The tavern owner harrumphed. 'Be here same time tomorrow.' Obviously, he was regretting already, and cursing his soft side.

Elrohir watched as she limped out of the tavern, oblivious to the hooting and the cheering and the mockeries that fused with her every step. He wanted to strangle someone. It was entirely his fault that she was reduced to begging for work in this shabby tavern, for watching as the water of the Hoarwell carried her dreams away in its cold embrace. He felt Elladan lean towards him in concern. 'I will release you now,' he warned, and the pressure on his forearm lessened. 'I pray you, don't do anything stupid.'

Elrohir downed the contents of his goblet and set it down, his knuckles white as he gripped it. It was the goblet or someone's throat. Looking around, he took in every detail of their surroundings: the dirt, the crowd, the raucous laughter and the stench. It was no place for her, he decided. And if she had no other solution, then he would find something, and save her from this little hell. He would not have her give up.

He rose from his seat and marched to the counter, followed closely by Elladan and Glorfindel, who obviously didn't trust him to walk out without a fight. Laying the coins on the dirt-encrusted wooden surface, he nodded to the door. 'Who was that girl?' he asked.

The tavern owner cocked an eyebrow. 'The girl? That's our Wyn, good sir.'

'The fairy,' echoed an amused voice from the back of the room - someone who itched for a couple of broken teeth, in Elrohir's opinion. The tavern owner scoffed. 'The fairy Wyn, we call her.'

The cruel irony of the nickname made Elrohir shiver. 'The fairy? Why?' he said, playing surprise in his turn.

The man looked slightly uneasy. 'Well...' he began, glancing at the door. 'She's a good girl,' he defended, 'But... A bit touched in the head, you know? Believes in fairies and elves, and such things...'

'I see,' Elrohir drawled. 'It's very... unusual,' he added, forcing the last word out of his mouth. The man laughed. 'Right you are, good sir,' he said. 'You see, she believes that one day, her elven prince will come to whisk her away on his white horse, all dressed in flowers.'

'The prince?' asked Glorfindel in disbelief.

'No, the horse.' The tavern owner waved his hand dismissively. 'Simple, I told you.'

Thanking the man through clenched teeth, Elrohir exited the tavern; the night air cooled down his anger, leaving only the guilt and the disgust. Crippled and rejected. What a miserable life he had given her, in his stupidity and carelessness. He glanced towards her house, where a single window was alight. Wyn, who was probably celebrating her small victory with a feast as magnificent as her meager supplies could allow.

What was he to do now?


	5. Chapter 5

\- Chapter 5 -

'He's a liar, you know.'

The elves spun around to see an old man lounging against the tavern wall for support, obviously drunk. 'Always was a foul son of a bitch.'

Elrohir cocked an eyebrow. 'The tavern owner?' The man had not struck him as mean, but not particularly bright and officious, especially if he hoped there was a coin for the information.

The drunkard shook his head. 'Lachlan. The guy in the back.' Elrohir almost growled at the mention of the wretched creature.

He drew back as the old man leaned towards the group, confiding in what he thought was a conspiratorial whisper: 'Been spreadin' lies about that poor girl… I'll tell you the truth, good sirs, the honest truth…' He grinned, revealing black, rotten teeth. 'For a little reward, good sirs? Hmm?'

Elrohir fought the urge to grab the man and shake him until he spilled everything he knew, but Glorfindel pulled out a golden coin from his purse. 'This should suffice,' he said coldly. 'Now speak.'

The drunkard snatched the coin away, staring at it in awe as it shone in his dirty palm. Finally, he glanced around to make sure no one saw him pocket it. 'Yes,' he nodded, 'The poor girl. A nice one, she is, kind and all… But just as sane as you or me.' Elrohir was not certain he liked the comparison, but he gestured for the man to continue.

'Her mother died just after her birth; father was gone, an' she had no money. Begged Lachlan for some, an' he said he'd give her…' - the man wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Elrohir repressed a grimace of disgust – 'For her love…'

'A kind woman she was, Yelena…' The drunkard stared dreamily into space. 'And then Owain came back, an' learned of his wife. He went mad, almost did the bastard in – only for his daughter did he stop, so she'd not be an orphan…' The man looked Elrohir in the eye, and suddenly he felt that the drunk's mind was not as blurred as it seemed to be. There was sadness there, drowned away by alcohol. Did he grieve the passing of the mother, or only his long lost childhood innocence, his shattered dreams that he saw reflected in Wyn like in a mirror?

'The grandmother used to tell her stories of the fair folk, and dragons… You know… Mighty heroes… What harm, for a child, I ask you? But Lachlan only saw malice in that family, since Yelena's death.'

Elrohir thought he had heard enough. 'Come,' he muttered, gesturing for the others to follow.

But Elladan ignored him. 'What happened to her?' he asked.

Elrohir flinched at his brother's words, remembering that fateful night when he took an innocent being's life – little did it matter that she lived still.

The drunkard shrugged. 'No one ever knew what happened. The girl was five when she slipped out one night, mayhap in search of those elves of hers… But she was found in the morning, trampled and almost dead; she's been walkin' funny ever since.'

Clenching his teeth against the overwhelming feeling of dread and guilt, Elrohir tried to fight back the images of a little girl, sprawled out on the ground, bloodied and cold in the middle of the night, her sobs of pain muffled by the mud. A knot formed in his throat, tightening still and threatening to choke him. He had often imagined what it must've felt like, painting the picture as black as he could, but to hear the truth was a thousand times more painful. He pulled out another coin, and slipped it into the man's hand. 'Thank you,' he whispered hoarsely before turning away.

* * *

Even with his eyes closed could Elrohir recognize his brother's step, as he lay down beside him. He felt the sun on his face; it painted the inside of his eyelids with the red of his own blood.

'Will you not leave me alone?' he muttered.

Elladan remained silent, and the only answer he got was a soft sigh, as his twin settled more comfortably beside him. The stones had been warmed up by the sun, and with Imladris almost empty, there was no one who would reproach them for the indignity of lying in the middle of a bridge. It was like doing whatever they wanted, their constant dream as elflings, but almost three thousand years too late.

'You are difficult to miss,' replied Elladan eventually. 'If you wanted privacy, you shouldn't have chosen the main entrance for your nap.' As Elrohir remained stubbornly silent, he shifted again, and spoke: 'I find it interesting that you have been watching the girl for this long, without taking any action.' Elrohir stiffened. He felt that Elladan was digging for the shameful truth, and that he was close to finding it.

'Twenty years,' continued his brother. 'I can imagine that love drove you to the village during these last months, but I keep wondering why you started your courtship so early. Being overly cautious, perhaps? I think not.'

Elrohir growled. 'Careful, brother. You're digging too deep; beware of the shadows.'

'The only explanation I can see is that you feel some duty towards that girl,' continued Elladan, ignoring his warning. 'A debt.'

Elrohir's eyes shot open, and he leaped to his feet. 'Enough,' he hissed. 'My conscience is none of your concern. You've meddled enough with my feelings; why don't you stick to that?' His fists clenched in annoyance and he spun on his heels.

'I remember that night.'

Elrohir froze.

'Your solo patrol at Amon Sul, if I am not mistaken. You had been attacked, and gravely wounded. I recall that Sídhguil barely managed to patch you up.' Elrohir turned around slowly. All these years he had believed that the memory of that fateful night had been kept by him alone. All these years he had carried the secret…

'Himdal's hide and hooves were full of blood. Until yesterday I had believed it to be yours.'

'It wasn't.' Elrohir's voice was thick with guilt and contempt. 'Truth is, I don't recall anything of that night, after I somehow managed to get on Himdal's back. I had urged him to get me home...' Elrohir sank to the ground and buried his face in his hands. 'But I kept dreaming this one dream: darkness, darkness all around, and a blood-chilling cold. And a child's face, twisted in terror. Once healed, I retraced my steps, down the Bruinen and into Hoarwell's valley. To Black Oak. And I learned that a small girl had been trampled by some stranger who had rushed through the village in the middle of the night.' He looked at his brother. 'I almost killed her, Elladan. And I have destroyed her dreams.'

'Dreams can be rebuilt, brother,' Elladan said from his position on the ground. His eyes were closed, and he was enjoying the sunshine as had Elrohir moments before. 'You could paint her new ones, if she is willing.'

'She will never forgive me.' Elrohir sat down, discouraged.

'And this is why I have advice for you: do not tell her.'

Elrohir frowned. 'You are advising me to lie?'

Elladan shrugged. 'If necessary. Of course, it depends on your goal' he said coolly. 'If you wish only to clear your conscience, by all means, go ahead. But if it is your happiness, and more importantly, hers, then keep the secret to your grave.' He opened an eye lazily, as if they were discussing some trivial household matter, and sheltered it from the sun with a hand. 'After all, how do you know she even wishes to know the truth?'

Elrohir was puzzled. 'Who wouldn't?'

'Someone who yearns for peace of mind,' countered his twin. 'She wants love, Elrohir. Your love, mayhap. Not your nobility and pristine conscience. How do you think she would react if she learned that her husband is the one who crippled her, even though it was in an unconscious moment?' he closed his eyes again. 'If you love her, make her happy. Lie.'

'I will not build a relationship on a lie,' Elrohir said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

'Then you are condemning it,' his twin snapped. 'By the stars, Elrohir, can you not see I am trying to help you? I don't approve of what you are about to do, this I have made clear. But if you must die, if this is truly your choice, then I'll see you happy in it.' His eyes, blazing with anger, softened. 'Even though it'll bring me great pain.'

Elrohir was struck by the momentary expression of intense suffering on his brother's face. But Elladan shook his head, regaining his cheerful and relaxed manners with bewildering speed. 'But enough of that,' he declared. 'So, tell me, brother. How do you envision courting her?'

Elladan reached out to pat Elrohir's shoulder. As soon as his hand made contact, he jerked it back as if he had been burned, and stared at his brother in fear. 'Elrohir,' he murmured. 'You are dying!'


	6. Chapter 6

\- Chapter 6 -

Elladan kicked a small stone out of his way, watching dejectedly as it ricocheted into the bushes bordering the alley. The plants were beginning to grow out of hand, he noted absently. The last elf with an interest for gardening had sailed several years ago, to the greatest joy of Imladris' emancipated gardens.

He strode down the narrow, stone-paved path, until he arrived at a wooden door. Elladan paused, listening for an instant for sounds coming from within that would indicate the current occupation of the person inside, then knocked.

'Come in,' called out a voice, and Elladan obeyed. As he closed the door behind him, he looked around the familiar room. Often had he come here in his younger years, and even more after his first battle. The desk was, as usual, covered with unread parchments, and the golden armour that he and Elrohir used to admire so much as elflings still collected dust in a corner, an obsolete reminder of glorious days long past.

He saw that Glorfindel was looking at him in expectation, sprawled out in his chair. An opened bottle of Dorwinion stood before him. The warrior straightened and turned around to reach into the cupboard behind him for a second cup. Elladan settled into a chair on the other side of the desk and took the proffered drink, watching it swirl in the silver goblet. He tasted it and, for a while, they said nothing.

It was as before, as every time that Elladan found himself in need of advice or comfort, when his father's wisdom or Elrohir's perceptiveness of his feelings made him uneasy and shy. The ancient warrior, first and foremost an elf of action, would always give a piece of his mind when asked about a problem, and offer a solution. He possessed none of Elrond's wisdom or Galadriel's foresight, and little knowledge in comparison to Erestor, but he'd always come up with some piece of advice. If not a good one, then at least something to do and make the one asking feel less helpless. And whether one heeded it or not, he took no offense.

Elladan studied the old warrior sitting across the table. Currently clad in an old, worn tunic, Glorfindel sipped on his wine with silent determination, his ageless eyes sad. A hero, a mentor, and then a friend Glorfindel had become, and now it seemed he felt as miserable as Elladan did. And Elladan remembered how much the older warrior hated feeling so at a loss.

Elladan could recall the night when he and his brother had brought their mother back, bloodied and fading, her immortal soul broken beyond repair. Their father had spent countless hours trying to heal her; and in the privacy of his study, Glorfindel had smashed half his furniture and gotten roaring drunk. It had been the same years before, during Arwen's birth - a long, difficult labour for their mother, and a dreadful agony for their father, who had feared for his wife and his daughter's lives. While Elrond had held Celebrían's hand and prayed to Elbereth, Glorfindel had drowned his fear in a bottle of Dorwinion.

Elladan emerged from his thoughts to see Glorfindel offer to fill his glass again. He watched as his friend poured him more wine and, grabbing the cup, swallowed the dark liquid, ignoring the velvety, slightly bitter taste. It wasn't the sensations he was seeking, only the blissful oblivion of an alcohol-induced stupor. He mentally apologized to the Dorwinion for such a lack of respect.

They drank in silence, cup after cup as though frozen in some endless cycle; only the decreasing amount of wine in the bottle indicated the passing of time.

'Where is he?' Glorfindel asked.

Elladan shrugged, smiling bitterly: 'With her, of course.' He set his feet on the edge of the desk, imitating Glorfindel's careless position. 'With his beloved.' He realized he had almost spat out the word, and felt guilty. He held no grudge against the girl, or against his brother, in fact. But he was hurt, and jealous.

Glorfindel cocked an eyebrow. 'What did you tell him?'

It was Elladan's turn to look surprised.

'I heard you argue,' explained the golden-haired warrior, 'Like anyone from here to Bree. I did not listen too closely, though.'

Elladan clenched his jaw at the mention of the dispute. To know of his brother's choice was one thing, but to _feel_ it accomplished in such a fashion… He felt the cold dread grip his heart again. It had been as though he had touched Elrohir's corpse. 'He is dying,' he hissed. 'The light… It is leaving him.'

'Was it not something to be expected?' objected Glorfindel sadly.

'It was… But not now! Not so soon!' Elladan rose from his seat. 'It's as though I do not exist for him, anymore… As though I am a wraith he can only distinguish with effort when he looks back…' He looked down. 'He is forgetting me.'

'He is in love.' Glorfindel set down his goblet and glanced out the window, his eyes suddenly veiled. 'Nothing else counts, anymore… Friends, kin… Everything cast aside for that one being.'

Elladan opened his mouth, then closed it, troubled. He glanced at his mentor, who was still staring out the window, and pondered his words. Strange how he had never considered that the ancient warrior could have loved someone. In Elladan's mind, Glorfindel was a hero, unreachable and unmoving, frozen in an aura of glory and might. Now Elladan noticed the lingering sadness in his eyes, the bitter lines around his mouth, the wry, disenchanted smile. _I do not really see those I love_ , he realized in shock. _Just like I did not notice Elrohir's growing feelings for a mortal._

This new discovery threatened the fragile equilibrium of Elladan's inner world; everything he had thought he knew for certain had to be reconsidered. Starting with what seemed to be in the air: love. It appeared that Glorfindel knew something about it, which made him an expert in the matter compared to Elladan.

'Is there something that can be done?' Elladan inquired cautiously as he sat down, loathe to rip his friend out of the distant reverie where he seemed to dwell.

Glorfindel shook his head. 'Alas, it is too late,' he sighed mournfully, filling his goblet. 'Our world and that of men have shifted places in Elrohir's mind. He will never be parted from his beloved, not by force or persuasion.' He smiled sadly. 'Remember Amroth.'

In his chair, Elladan shifted impatiently. 'But… Then what? Should I just give up on him?'

'Give up?' Glorfindel looked from his cup, surprised. 'He is your brother, Elladan, and…'

'I know this!' cried Elladan, leaping from his seat. Blood was pulsing in his head more painfully with each beat, quicker and quicker as the effect of alcohol finally overruled his self-control. 'He is my twin. By Elbereth, he is _me_!' He hurled the empty goblet into a corner. 'And I am scared, Glorfindel. I am terrified to even look at him, let alone touch him. It feels like he is dying, and I am merely standing here, watching! And I can not stop telling myself that I must do something, yet I know he does not wish me to.' Elladan clenched his jaw, and added quietly: 'I can not let go, Glorfindel. I can not. How do you do it?'

'I don't,' replied Glorfindel just as quietly.

Elladan sank back into the chair.

'There is no way to make it easier,' continued the golden-haired warrior. His speech was slightly slurred. 'The pain, the anger, they will not go away. Long Years will thicken your skin, soothe the guilt, but it shall never completely fade.' Elladan looked at him in astonishment and Glorfindel shrugged. 'At least, it did not for me.'

Elladan leaned forward, drawn by the solemn grief hiding in his friend's eyes. How did he not notice it before? And how long had it lurked there, dormant and unseen?

'What did you do, then?' he asked.

'I died.'

* * *

Up to her elbows in cold, dirty water, the pile of crockery teetering dangerously beside her, Wyn was beginning to reconsider her brave, but foolish decision. Not that she would ever admit it aloud: what was left of her pride would never allow her to back out of a promise. A word given not only to the tavern owner, Beinon, but also to her father and, most importantly, to herself. She had sworn she would not be a burden anymore; that she would stop her pointless dreaming and take a hold of her life. Life was now; fantasies would never be.

She sighed and went back to work, listening distractedly to the noise in the main room. The crowd hooted and cheered and laughed, and demanded always more ale.

'Here,' breathed out one of the serving girls as she returned with more dishes, and began a new pile. 'They won't stop eating, the pigs.' And she was gone before Wyn had the time to think of an answer. This sentence had been more or less the only acknowledgement of her presence by the staff, but it suited her just fine: she'd rather be ignored than stared at, as when she had arrived earlier that evening.

The tavern had been less crowded, but still the air had been misty with smoke. The whole room had seemed to pause as she opened the door, conversations growing lower, making the hurtful words all the easier to distinguish. _Dimwit_. _Ugly_. _Pitiful_.

Biting her lip, Wyn had blocked the nauseating shame and pain that rose inside, and limped over to the counter. Beinon had grunted out a greeting, then pointed to the back of the tavern: 'Go see Ciara. She'll show you what to do.'

Wyn had turned around to obey.

'Hey, pretty fairy!' a too familiar voice had suddenly called out. 'What are you doin' in a place like this? Ain't no elves here…' The mockery had been echoed by a chorus of raucous voices. 'Only real men here, darlin'… Want some?'

Someone had scoffed. 'Of course she does! But do _you_ really want a piece of _that_?' Laughter erupted in the back of the tavern, and the young woman's face had blazed red in embarrassment, earning only more hooting in return.

Yes, anonymity suited her just fine, and the work was not as difficult as much as unpleasant. Wyn rinsed – uselessly – another mug in the dirty water and reached out for the next.

The voices in the main room seemed to grow in number and volume, and a breathless Ciara ran into the backroom where Wyn stood. 'Hell of a night.' She shook her head in disbelief. 'We're going to need you out there.'

'Me?' Wyn almost dropped the mug. 'But… But I can't!' She panicked at the prospect of walking amongst the people who could already find so many ways to hurt her even in a less drunken state.

'You work here.' Ciara's tone bore no arguments. 'You do whatever you're told, or you walk out.'

Wyn clenched her teeth, fighting off tears of humiliation and anger. They would not see her beg again. 'I'll do it,' she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

\- Chapter 7 -

Wyn was given a tray and a pitcher of ale, and quickly directed towards a table in the back. She glanced at the room, which seemed to have grown to the size of a field in a matter of minutes. The tray held in both hands, so unlike the graceful swerving of the other girls, Wyn started to make her way across the room. The pitcher teetered with her every step, rattling like a taunting laugh, and she tried to watch out for those who would think it funny to make her trip. Some didn't even hide it, leisurely stretching out their legs in the passage with an air of defiance and anticipation, looking her straight in the eye. So Wyn would lower her gaze and mumble an apology, and awkwardly step over the obstacle.

'Your ale, sir,' she said quietly as she finally set down the pitcher, inwardly breathing out in relief. She noticed that the customer had kept his hood, his face mere shadows in the dimly lit room. His clothes, simple yet well-sewn and obviously made of material more resistant than asthetic, marked him as a traveler or a hunter, perhaps one of the few rangers remaining in Eriador. Beneath his cloak Wyn caught a glimpse of a scabbard.

A ranger, then; one of the men who were still respected and watched with awe wherever they went, in remembrance of the time when they wandered through the land and kept its peace, even through Arda's darkest days. Heroes, if only by association with the legends of old.

Of them, too, Wyn had heard many a tale from her grandmother when she was little. The old woman had spoken of courage and sacrifice, of bloodlines thought lost; of swords reforged and kingdoms restored into their former glory.

Smiling despite herself she turned away, her vivid imagination already painting him as a long-lost heir to some faraway land, on his way to reclaim his throne and save it from the clutches of an evil wizard. A beautiful tale indeed. Maybe he truly was someone extraordinary, who had stopped in this shabby tavern for a night, gracing them with his presence. Or maybe he was just a man; it was all the same to her. Her fantasies had often proved brighter than real life, though just as painful in their impossibility.

Thus dreaming, Wyn didn't notice the pair of legs stretched out in her way, for rest or on purpose. Stumbling, she released her grasp on the tray as she tried to put her good leg forward to break the fall, only to step on the hem of her own dress and feel herself unexpectedly caught. The iron circle of the man's arms around her was immediately broken as he peered down at her. 'Are you alright?' he asked, his voice low but still audible in the surrounding tumult.

 _Are you alright_. Three little words that shook Wyn deeper than she could have imagined possible.

She had not expected them, or anything approaching. In the seconds that followed her rescue from a fall to the floor, she had braced herself for a mockery, a sharp word or two to remind her of her place. In fact, she had not expected anyone to move as she fell, save for standing up in order to have a better view of the show. She had reached out, hoping to absorb the impact and spare her damaged leg. Wyn looked up into the darkness cast by the hood, and nodded uncertainly, and waited. She waited for a reason, for an explanation, but none came.

The stranger stiffened at the string of insults proffered by the man on whose legs she had tripped: whether it was for her hurting him or the ranger spoiling his fun, Wyn could only guess.

Her saviour's hand slid beneath his cloak to rest menacingly on the hilt of his sword that was revealed into the light of the room: long and curved, unlike any weapon Wyn ever saw her father make. 'Sit down,' he hissed, looking directly into the drunkard's face. 'Now.'

Wyn wondered whether the man could see the stranger's face: he paled and sank back into his chair, his legs safely tucked beneath it; apparently, he had lost all desire to quarrel. With his surrendering, the other occupants of the room, who had been hoping for a fight to distract them, turned away in disappointment, and back to their drinks. Wyn and her role was forgotten for a moment.

She realized she was standing empty-handed in the middle of the tavern. The stranger bent and retrieved her tray from the dirty floor. He handed it back to her.

'Thank you,' she whispered. Then, to herself: 'I should get back to work.'

He caught her by the elbow, the gesture firm yet delicate, as if he was measuring his strength every second of that contact, afraid to harm. Startled, Wyn didn't have the reflex to draw back as he leaned forward. 'Don't give up,' he whispered into her ear; his warm breath tickled her skin. 'Don't forsake your dreams. Keep believing: I promise they will come true.'

The pressure on her arm disappeared as he brushed past her without a word more of comfort or explanation and, throwing a few coins at the counter, slipped out of the tavern.

* * *

Elrohir was boiling inside with conflicted feelings, torn between rage at those filthy men's behavior towards Wyn and his own love. _How dare they? How dare they even look at her, let alone taunt her so with her infirmity?_ He clenched his jaw until the muscles ached; a welcome distraction from his wrath, for he feared he would go back and kill one of the infuriating scumbags. And that, no doubt, would seriously compromise his chances with Wyn.

No, it was better to vent the anger on himself; the one responsible for it all. Although Elrohir could not see how much more he could torture himself. The feeling of her body in his arms, the realization of how fragile and skinny she was, had triggered the sadly familiar guilt he felt each time he was reminded of how dire her situation was. But this time, something else had flared up alongside it: something wild that stirred in his stomach, stretched and purred, its thoughts momentarily shared with his. It gloated at the warmth left on his skin by the young woman, and asked for more.

Pushing down the surge of desire, Elrohir glanced one more time back at the tavern and started to make his way out of the village. The night air cooled down his anger, turning it into mild disgust with men in general. The sky was dark above him, full of stars, and the moon shone down in all its silver glory, illuminating the plain and reflecting off the pale, humid grass. It was as if the earth and the heavens had been inverted, the black soil now above, and the clouds beneath his feet.

Elrohir played his words over and over again in his mind. Hope, he had promised her; and hope she would get. And happiness, if he could. But how?

'… _she believes that one day, her elven prince will come to whisk her away on his white horse, all dressed in flowers…_ '

Elrohir smiled. Fate seemed to work in mysterious ways, but for that he was immensely thankful. His happiness, and Wyn's, had been prophesized long ago, by an old woman telling a tale to her granddaughter. A girl who could not, and must not marry otherwise than in this particular manner; a girl who could wait for him alone. Only he could decide to make this miracle come true.

* * *

Elladan turned in his bed, wincing as the pounding in his head intensified. _Never again_ , he thought, _never again will I follow Glorfindel into his drinking oblivion_. He cursed aloud, immediately regretting it: the words echoed in the empty room and slammed back into his face. It was only a slight consolation to know that his mentor was experiencing the same agony, somewhere in his study.

' _He is your brother…_ '

Of course, Glorfindel was right. No matter how vexing Elrohir's decision, how painful the breaking of their bond, Elrohir would always remain his brother. He would not change, no matter how Elladan clung to that insignificant hope; his brother would not step back towards him. Then it was he, Elladan, who had to make a step towards Elrohir. Accept his choice, once and for all, and stop fooling himself: there could be no question of sailing. Not when his twin still lived on these shores.

Too often had he rescued Elrohir from danger, and been rescued in turn. They had bled and laughed together, hidden from Erestor's wrath and stood side by side next to the cold stone of Estel's grave. But the loyalty went further.

Being the oldest, he had once been told to protect his brother as an elfling, and the habit had never really faded away. It was a duty that he had towards Elrohir, and a purpose. A guard that he had stood for many Long Years, unconsciously shielding his twin from harm, leaving the best for him. Elrohir always came first.

It was only natural for Elladan to remain now, no matter how he resented his brother for forcing him into it. Just a little longer would he walk on this earth that he had come to love; just a little more pain than he already felt, only to gain a few precious moments of that brotherly complicity.

In the end, it almost sounded like a selfish decision.

Truth was, Elladan could not imagine his existence without his twin by his side, always present like a mirror image, or a shadow. Even in blessed Valinor, a land of peace and rest, he knew he would feel his brother's absence like a hole in his own heart; no war or conflict would take his mind off the one who had remained behind. Days would stretch on, all alike, as he would reminisce of the good old days when he and Elrohir were together.

No, he would find no rest there. He had to stay; he felt it now, more acutely every second. And why not push the reasoning further?

Did he really want to live without Elrohir?

He remembered his argument with his brother, but this time he played both sides. He would be missed, and his decision would bring his parents great grief. And he really, really would have liked to see them again, especially his mother. He had much to say: how he had missed her, how sorry he was for not succeeding in keeping Elrohir safe. He needed to console her, to testify that Arwen had been happy. To tell her he loved her.

In the darkness of his room, Elladan smiled bitterly. _You are not the only one with a choice, brother_ , he thought. Laying on his back, he watched the ceiling as for the first time since days his mind was at ease.


	8. Chapter 8

\- Chapter 8 -

Elrohir eyed the magnificent white stallion with wide-eyed admiration. True, Imladris' stables had never lacked good horses, but Glorfindel seemed to always have the best steed, choosing them with the infallible instinct of a connoisseur, though his taste had proven to be somewhat monotonous, over the years.

'I am starting to believe that it is some kind of a fetish,' smirked Elrohir, caressing the soft nose of the white stallion.

The Golden lord scowled. 'If you don't want him, I'll have you know that it is just fine with me. You can still ride one of your donkeys.'

'I meant no offense,' said Elrohir, laying a soothing hand on his mentor's shoulder. 'And I am grateful for your help, my friend.' He smiled in apology.

Glorfindel eyed him with distrust, probably wondering whether it was some maneuver to gain his confidence, and evaluated the risks at hand. He must've found none significant, for he hmmph-ed and went to rummage through the well-kept shelves of the stables.

Elrohir saw him come back with a magnificently embroidered saddle and a headstall studded with jewels. 'You might want to use this,' he said, 'If your goal is to impress.' Elrohir stared in awe at the equipment. Elves rarely used any when riding, but when they did, it was obviously with style. He smiled again. 'I do not know how to thank you.'

'Then stay,' offered the warrior in a gruff voice. 'Your father will skin me alive when he learns of what I let you do.'

'That I cannot.'

The awkward moment stretched on as they both stood, embarrassed by the silence. There was so much Elrohir wanted to say, so many contradictory feelings inside he thought he'd burst. With a low curse, Glorfindel suddenly engulfed him in a bear hug. 'You will be missed,' he whispered into Elrohir's ear. Elrohir nodded, returning the gesture with silent gratitude for his friend's understanding and support. There were no words for the admiration he had had for the legendary warrior as an elfling, the respect for a just captain, the love for a long-time friend.

The embrace was interrupted as an elleth, one of the few who still remained, entered the stables. She bore a basket of flowers: the first of the season, fresh and bright, and so very fragile. Once she had left, Glorfindel nodded towards the flowers. 'Your disguise,' he smirked a bit awkwardly. 'O Flower King…'

Elrohir smiled in return, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. The title had been given to him by another, someone whose absence weighed heavily on his heart. He glanced towards the doors, half expecting his brother to come bursting through, be it with words of reproach. But only the sunshine poured into the stables, glistening on the straw and taunting him with the merriness it carried.

Hiding his disappointment, Elrohir bent to retrieve a flower. As he twirled it between his fingers, a soft muzzle brushed his hand: Faingil was reaching out, trying to taste the fresh plant.

Glorfindel laughed and patted his stallion's neck in affection. 'Alas, it is not for you, my friend,' he murmured. 'Once again you are leaving on a mission, but this time it shall be without me…'

As if he sensed his master's melancholy, Faingil nuzzled Glorfindel's hand.

'He is a good friend,' said the warrior. 'Many battles we have been through, and he has carried me without fear. But he was born on these shores; here he must remain. I will be saddened to be parted from him.'

Elrohir looked at the old warrior in surprise.

'I am sailing,' explained Glorfindel quietly. 'I am leaving in the morn for the Grey Havens to take the last ship.' He shrugged, as if embarrassed by the confession. 'Many years have I lingered here, out of friendship to you and your father. Yet I can not remain any longer. There are many loved ones that I have long wished to see. This is a goodbye, my friend.'

Elrohir stared at him for an instant, then embraced him again. 'Then farewell, Glorfindel,' he said quietly, the words leaving him with difficulty. His mind was blank save for platitudes he had no wish to say. Glorfindel's friendship was worth more than that. 'I was honoured to have known you, and even more so to have called you a friend. I will miss you.'

Glorfindel returned the embrace. 'I would have said I hope to see you on the other side, my friend,' he whispered. 'Yet I know such is not your choice. Farewell, Elrohir Elronnion. May you live that dream you cherish. And may your regrets fade, and your heart find peace.' He pulled away and, with one final nod and a pat on Faingil's nose, he was gone.

* * *

Merry laughter still rang in his ears as Elrohir stormed under the stone arch and down the road that led out of Imladris. Beneath him, Faingil ran fast, despite his attempts to shake away the many flowers weaved into his mane.

His road was long through the dark plains and the silence, and would finally bring him to Black Oak at dawn, as the sun would rise above the Hithaeglir. He urged Faingil forward, searching an outlet to his irritation in speed. His joyous anticipation of the moments to come had been tainted.

Firstly, Glorfindel's announcement of his imminent departure had shaken him. The old warrior had become a living symbol in his eyes: ancient and brave beyond compare was he, matched only by High Kings of old. His very blood ran in the earth, spilt to defend it countless times. But now he was leaving, abandoning Middle-earth to its fate, and Elrohir along with it. And Elrohir could not help but feel betrayed. Maybe Glorfindel was right… He would need time to come to terms with his choices and regrets.

But most of all he resented his brother's absence. Elladan had been missing all day, not showing up even for meals. Elrohir understood that the realization of his own death had come as a shock to his brother, but he had hoped that Elladan would at least come to bid him farewell… If he was completely honest with himself, he would have admitted that he also secretly hoped that his twin would finally accept his decision and support it, though he could see no greater sacrifice to ask.

Suddenly, Elrohir spun around; he had thought, for an instant, that a familiar voice was calling out his name. His eyes searched the plain behind him, but the grass swayed softly in the wind, shimmering beneath the rising moon. The path behind him lay empty.

Sighing, Elrohir nudged once again Faingil into a gallop, his heart even heavier than before. Doubts began to gnaw on his conscience, undermining his determination. _You behave like a spoiled child_ , they whispered. _You are throwing your family away on a whim, on a roll of a dice_. _You are tearing apart everything they have fought to build_. And also… _She will laugh at you_. _She will be afraid_. _She will leave you_.

'Elrohir!'

He spun around again. It was not his imagination, that voice identical to his own calling out in the wind. Elladan brought his horse to a halt beside him. 'You and your stubbornness,' he breathed out, panting. 'If Erebrandir dies of exhaustion beneath me, on your head be it.'

Elrohir could not help but grin, relief flooding over him. 'Poor pony,' he replied, 'I am afraid there is no steed that could match Faingil here…'

'Pony?' Elladan scoffed. 'You ride a horse that does not belong to you, brother. Do not insult others' mounts.' He patted his roan's neck. 'Erebrandir is a war steed; trained by Glorfindel as well, in case you have forgotten.'

'Then maybe you are the one out of shape…' smirked Elrohir. 'You should consider eating less, if your _war steed_ has difficulties carrying you…'

His brother laughed, and Elrohir felt elated, their playful banter like a respite, a moment out of time. Then he glanced to the stars above.

'I have to go,' he said softly.

'I know.' Elladan nodded, sobering. 'I know. And this is what brings me here, Elrohir. Let us not be parted in bitterness and anger. Let us be brothers, together to the end, whichever it may be…' He opened his arms. 'Elrohir, I...' He smiled guiltily.

'I know,' Elrohir shook his head, 'I know, Elladan. Let us not talk about it anymore.' He smiled at the surprised expression on his twin's face. 'Brothers, remember?' Before Elladan could protest, he turned his horse around and kicked it into a gallop. 'Wait!' he thought he had heard, but as he glanced behind, Elladan raised a hand in farewell. 'Go, Flower King! Ride, and bring back your betrothed! Bring her back to Imladris!' he called out.

 _Who knows, Imladris might yet see its halls filled with a child's laughter, the ancient settlement a heirloom to the blood of the Half-Elven._ Elrohir grinned as Faingil snorted beneath him and shook his mane. The flowers trembled but held on, much to the steed's annoyance. Reining in his own impatience, Elrohir raced to his precious goal. Down the dusty road, under the pale stars and through the plain, singing along with his heart.


	9. Chapter 9

\- Chapter 9 -

The small but obstinate bug was back. Wyn scowled as she saw it land once again on the table she was wiping, stretch its legs and trot leisurely across the wooden surface. 'Go away!' she repeated, nudging it delicately with a finger. But the insect did not seem deterred by her words or gesture. Deviated from its course, it paused as if to think and, finding the cap again, resumed its journey. Wyn sighed. 'You are looking for trouble!' she warned it, hands on her hips.

If insects had eyebrows, this one would've cocked one in challenge.

'Stupid bug.' She reached out and picked it up, holding the fragile carapace between her thumb and index. With the other hand, she opened the window. 'Out with you!' she declared, setting the insect down on the windowsill. As it stretched out its small wings and took flight, Wyn could not help but sigh. Foolish as it seemed, the bug had provided a welcome distraction from her jumbled thoughts.

And jumbled they were… Dark and luminous, gloomy yet filled with delighted admiration; scary yet wondrous, the events of the night before yesterday came back to her. Truth was she did not know how to label them. The altercation with the drunkard had been frightening, as Wyn had imagined all too well the possible – and unpleasant – scenarii that could have resulted from her clumsiness; yet the turn of events had been changed unexpectedly, transporting her into one of those fairy tales where a poor maiden was saved by a dark and mysterious stranger.

Not that Wyn fooled herself: the man had gone his own way, and she would never see him again. She even understood the motivation of his kind gesture, secretly relieved that such nobility still existed in their forgotten corner of the country.

But his words, she did not know what to do with them. They remained etched in her memory, engraved forever along with his deep, mesmerising voice. _Don't forsake your dreams. I promise they will come true_ … Those words held such wondrous perspectives, would paint her happiness beyond her wildest dreams if only she let them. They promised stone castles and floating banners, handsome warriors and feasts, and songs, and…

Wyn realized that she had allowed her mind to wander once again into the foolishly romantic territories of her secret fantasies. She sighed again and closed her eyes, inhaling the fresh, cool scent of the spring morning outside. The sun had risen not long ago, but the world still held the brand new colors of dawn, bright and promising. It would be a beautiful day.

And only that.

She could not, must not wish for more, for everyone's sake, and especially her own. False hopes would do her heart little good.

Resigned, she picked up the discarded rag she used to dust off the scarce furniture of their home and set back to work. Already her leg was hurting, but she welcomed the pain as a sharp reminder of who and what she was.

Someone yelled outside; Wyn shook her head. Probably some drunkard, returning from his all-night feast in the tavern. Finishing with the table, she moved to the cupboard and bent to glance beneath it. Sometimes, she would find a coin or two in the dust; not this time.

More cries made her frown. Surely, the tavern was not that big as to hold an entire village? Because that was exactly how it sounded, even though Wyn knew better. She worked there, after all…

From where she stood, she could see people pouring out of their houses, their faces various shades of ashen. They whispered in hushed voices and, it seemed to her, cast frightened glances towards her house. Some were pointing to the horizon.

Raising an eyebrow in somewhat sceptical interest, Wyn put down the rag and limped over to the window. The whispers died down for a second, she thought, before starting again with renewed vigour. Shrugging, she looked to the horizon...

...And would have fallen, had she not steadied herself by catching hold of the table.

For there, silhouetted against the rising sun and mounted on a magnificent, white horse, rode an elf. She could see it from her window: the unearthly, almost painful perfection of his face, the litheness of his body, his straight, dark hair cascading past his pointed ears…

 _It c_ _an not be!_ Wyn choked, emotion rising in her chest, constricting her heart and throat. _Whose cruel joke is this?_ Stumbling blindly, she tried to run, but only managed an ungraceful and hasty waddle. Ripping the door open, she limped to where the other villagers stood, hiding the rider from view. Then the crowd parted before her and she could see him again, in all his glorious beauty. Wyn saw their faces: scared, astonished, envious, without the slightest trace of laughter or mockery. Her name was on everyone's lips, spoken with reverence rather than disdain. Then she turned her gaze back to the rider.

The sun was glistening off his armour, off the jewels adorning his steed's bridle. And when he came closer, Wyn saw his clear eyes scan the crowd. Fear gripped her heart then. What if he did not recognize her? What if he chose someone else? She stumbled forward. 'It's me!' she cried. 'You came for me!'

Through the tears that streamed down her face, she saw him smile. He was so close now that there was no mistaking him for a dream; he was real, and so were his strong hands as he leaned down to lift her up from the ground. 'You came…' she sobbed as he gently wiped the tears away.

'I did,' he said. 'Such was the prophecy.' And everything in Wyn recognized him, opened up to him and settled, murmuring of home.

And when he leaned in to kiss her, she closed her eyes, happy and warm, certain that this was the way everything was meant to be.

* * *

Elrohir stretched under the sheets and turned around to look at his wife. His wife... How sweet those words sounded, full of marvellous perspectives and dreams. Wyn was sleeping soundly with her arms curled against her chest, her steady breath tickling his skin as he leaned closer to place a soft kiss on a dark lock that covered her temple. She shifted in her slumber, grimacing a little as the kiss tickled her, and Elrohir could not help but chuckle. She was his now, just as much as he was hers. Only he would be granted that smile of hers, when her whole face lit up in unveiled joy, when no words were needed as her eyes told him that she loved him... Only he would hold her close, feel the warmth of her soft skin beneath his. And he would be the one to make all her dreams come true. Elrohir smiled fondly: Wyn had many romantic fantasies in that little heart of hers, ideas of love and nobility that most had long discarded as obsolete and impractical. She had high standards, and Elrohir was not entirely certain that he was as brave and perfect as she thought he was, but he would do his very best to live up to them.

He watched as she slept, chest rising and falling slowly, long eyelashes fluttering as she wandered in one of her dreams. Wyn had no idea just how beautiful she was. Perfect, every feature pretty in such a way that her beauty endeared rather than intimidated; soft, delicate, lovely.

His stomach growled loudly enough to make him fear for her rest; but much to his relief she stirred without waking, and Elrohir decided that a breakfast in bed was a perfect way to begin their first day of marriage. He grinned as he pulled on his tunic, remembering as he and Elladan used to make fun of those enamoured, inseparable married couples as elflings, grimacing at their displays of affection. Now he was the besotted one...

He could only wish the same happiness for his brother.

As he reached the door, Elrohir glanced one last time behind him; Wyn was still asleep, undisturbed by his departure, and he would have her remain so until he returned. He wanted to be there when she woke up and realized that it had not only been a magnificent dream.

Cautiously closing the door behind him, Elrohir headed to the kitchens. The halls and corridors that he passed were predictably empty, the paintings that used to be jewels of art and colour now dull and dark beneath the dust that started to settle. He felt the familiar pang of regret that the time of the elves had to come to an end. Whether they left or faded, the First-born were leaving the shores for which they had fought for ages, and their departure had a taste of defeat. But the world had changed too much in the last years; war after war scarring the earth as Men fought for power and pleasure. The elves' attempts to prevent those battles had turned against them, alienating races that used to be allies.

'Morning, brother!' called out a too familiar voice, jerking Elrohir out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Elladan sitting on the kitchen counter, bare-footed and munching on a loaf of bread with the enthusiasm of a hungry hobbit. 'Such a grim face on your first day as a married man... Did the... erm... night go wrong?'

Elrohir felt blood flow to his cheeks in a blush. 'That would be none of your business, brother dear,' he snapped.

'My, so testy today... You must be hungry.' Elladan pushed the bread towards him. 'Eat something, it might cheer you up.'

Elrohir cocked a sceptical eyebrow, but helped himself to the bread anyway. They ate in silence for a while, until he spoke up again. 'It is strange,' he mused aloud. 'Something has changed, I can almost feel it...'

Elladan's head snapped up. 'Do you?' he asked cautiously.

Elrohir nodded. 'It is almost as though it was physical...' He looked up to see Elladan watching him with intensely, his expression almost avid. 'Do you not feel it?'

'I did not think _you_ did...' whispered Elladan, his grey eyes boring into his. 'And... How do you feel about it?'

Elrohir shrugged, finishing off his bread. 'It makes me sad,' he admitted. 'We have lived here for so long that we became part of this earth... To see our people leave is harder than I thought it would be. There are no more elves on these shores, Elladan; I can feel it in my heart. The last ships have sailed...' He frowned suddenly, realizing the meaning of his words. 'The last ships... Elladan! How are you going to sail?'

Elladan looked at him in surprise, then gave him a crooked smile. 'I will find a way, brother,' he said quietly. 'I will find a way...' He shook his head. 'You should not worry about me,' he chided. 'You are the married one...'

'That I am.' Elrohir nodded, thinking of Wyn sleeping in his bed. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to join her under the covers, to hold her close and let the beating of her heart lull him into slumber again. Brushing the crumbs off of his tunic, he picked up the remaining bread and a jug of juice. 'And now I return to my husbandly duties!' he smirked, curtseying. 'I will see you, Elladan.'

Elladan nodded mutely. He seemed thoughtful all of a sudden, and Elrohir's heart went to him, aching for his loneliness. 'You are not losing me, brother,' Elladan said suddenly. 'I will always be here. I am no different now, and I am not leaving you.' Elladan chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. 'Indeed, you are lingering here and neglecting your wife! Go now, she must be waiting!'

As Elrohir returned to his room through the long corridors of Imladris, he felt relieved at his exchange with his brother. He knew how much it must have cost Elladan to touch him, feeling as life slowly seeped from his body like grains of sand in an hourglass, but that simple contact had meant more for Elrohir than a thousand words. For the second time Elladan was watching a loved one die, and yet he would stay to the end, if Elrohir let him...

 _Enough sacrifices_ , Elrohir thought. _Enough broken lives and wasted time. Elladan has given more than enough_. It was time they all got their share of happiness; together, like the family they now were.


	10. Chapter 10

\- Chapter 10 -

_Eight_ _months later_

Elladan smiled from afar at Wyn's sheepish expression. She stood in the hall and seemed lost, looking around in consternation. He approached her, careful to step loudly in order to warn her of his arrival and not startle her. She turned around, and her brow creased in confusion. Elladan realised that she was wondering whether he was himself, or Elrohir. It still seemed difficult for her to distinguish him from his brother; it had been a source of several embarrassing mistakes in the past few months – not that he could blame her, even Glorfindel had had trouble telling who was who in the first years of their friendship.

'Wyn?' he asked, 'May I help you?' He stopped a few feet away.

'Elladan,' she smiled in relief. 'I am afraid I am lost… Again.' She gestured to the empty hallways around them. 'I don't recognise this part of the house.' She took a step towards him, walking carefully. Elladan noticed that she had rested her hand on her bulging stomach, as if to protect her unborn child from any harm. Her steps, rendered difficult by her crippled leg, were further slowed by her pregnancy, and he hurried to offer her his arm, which she took with a thankful smile.

Elrohir had tried to heal her, Elladan recalled, but the injury ran too deep, and was too old to be cured by the last remains of elven magic he and his brother still possessed. He knew that it was Elrohir's greatest regret: to be unable to give health back to the woman he loved, especially since he was the cause of it. Elladan had never been a healer; he had therefore not offered his help, and not been asked to, much to his relief. The weakness of his own powers could have betrayed him; Elrohir still knew nothing of his choice, but to bear the burden day after day and not say a word to him was becoming increasingly hard.

Elladan nodded. 'I do not believe you have been here before. These were the guest rooms, when we still had guests…' He felt her lean heavily on his arm, and started to guide her slowly towards the inhabited part of Imladris.

'I wanted to visit…' she confessed, looking around. 'I will never tire of the beauty of this place.' She paused to examine the statues that stood beneath a stone arch, and a shadow crossed her features.

'Wyn?' Elladan asked, frowning. 'What is it?' He immediately regretted his question. It was not his place to ask; he was not her husband, nor her confidant or friend, despite their cordial relationship. There had always been awkwardness between them, because of his resemblance to his brother, and also because she felt that her arrival had changed something between them, disrupted an equilibrium never meant to be broken.

But Wyn seemed to take no offense at his question. She sighed and closed her eyes briefly. 'It is as though they are watching me,' she muttered, blushing. 'Watching and judging, and finding me lacking, compared to you all.'

Elladan glanced at the empty eyes of stone, and the unwavering gaze made him feel uneasy as well; it was as though there was reproach on those ancient faces. But for what? 'Come,' he said quietly. 'Let us go back to the living.'

Wyn met his eyes and nodded; they walked slowly in the gloom of the empty corridors in a comfortable silence. Suddenly Wyn put her hand on her stomach, and a fond smile illuminated her face. 'He is kicking!' she chuckled. 'He wants out…'

Despite the fact that he now felt closer to the young woman than ever before, Elladan felt slightly embarrassed, like he was intruding on a moment he had not been supposed to witness. 'He? It could be a daughter,' he argued.

Wyn shook her head with a grin. 'It is a son, I can feel it.' She patted her stomach. 'And a restless one, too. He will give us trouble.'

Elladan smiled, remembering his own childhood with Elrohir; their pranks, their carelessness and energy, until they had been taught to tame it; their first fight, and first wound. He felt his heart go to this out little being, this child of his brother's blood; he vowed that it would live a blessed childhood, and a happy life. Elladan would see to it.

'I am going to be an uncle!' he grinned. 'Oh, this is a perfect way to get back at my dear brother for all the pranks he ever played on me or let me be punished for! I will teach your child everything I know about mischief!'

'…And we will go grey in the head before our time by your fault!' Wyn laughed. 'Beware! What if Elrohir turns those pranks against you?'

'Then I will have to ensure that my nephew's loyalty towards me never wavers! I will spoil him rotten, and cover him in presents.'

Wyn nudged his ribs. 'You are evil!'

Elladan grinned wider, bowing. 'Aye. I am.'

He supported her as they started to walk down a flight of stairs. Wyn clutched his arm, her other hand on the railing. She grimaced with every step, her mangled leg obviously torturing her; but she did not complain, and Elladan realised that he had never heard her say a word about her injury. His words came back to him: he had advised his brother to keep the secret about what had happened the night she had been crippled, but what did Wyn think of it? Was ignorance a bliss, or a curse?

'Do you want to know?' he blurted out. 'Who… Who did this to you?' he added awkwardly as she stared at him.

Wyn sighed. 'I wanted, yes… I used to be so angry at the responsible…' She shrugged. 'But I got used to it. You know, I remember a little about when it happened.'

Elladan felt his heart quicken. '…And?'

'And I saw the rider… I remember that he was leaning on the neck of his horse, and that he was covered in blood. Later I realised that he must have been unconscious, so how could I blame him?' She smiled sadly. 'I'd rather think that my… sacrifice allowed him to reach his home faster, and survive.'

Elladan nodded mutely, thinking over her words. If she would rather not know the truth, and imagine a gentler reality to console her, how would it be for Elrohir? Elladan knew all too well the pain of losing a loved one to death; twice now he had faced it, but it stung just as strongly the second time. He doubted the ache would ever fade completely; it was a wound he would carry in his heart for all his lifetime. Would it be kinder, then, to spare Elrohir the knowledge that he, Elladan, had given up his immortality as well, driven by desperation? Spare him the abyss of helplessness and guilt?

'Elladan?' Wyn squeezed his arm gently. 'Is something amiss? Did I say something wrong?'

Elladan frowned. 'No, no. Why?'

"You look sad…"

Elladan shook his head and forced a smile to his lips. It sufficed to distract Wyn, who winced as another kick was delivered from inside her belly. 'Peace, my little one!' she whispered, stroking her stomach lovingly. 'Ouch!' She grimaced. 'Peace. Your time will come soon.'

Elladan watched her attentively; he knew little of healing and midwifery and, though seemingly harmless, the situation required his brother's knowledge. He guided Wyn down the corridor, and soon they had reached the entrance to Elrohir's chambers.

Wyn let go of Elladan's arm. 'Thank you,' she nodded, 'For your help.' She hesitated. 'It is not always easy…'

 _To live in a realm of perfect beings_ , finished Elladan in his head. He bowed and took his leave, striding down the dark, silent halls. He felt suddenly sorry for her, his brother's mortal-born, imperfect wife who would never live up to the image she had of the elves. If only Wyn knew, he thought bitterly, if only she heard of our history, of the bloodstains on our hands… But again, was it a service to do her, or a cruel thing?

Truth was, he understood her better than he had thought possible, and it pained him to think that someday he would have to abandon her. Despite her love for Elrohir, she was in need of a friend, to share the few doubts and fears she dared not tell her husband. Yet he would have to deny her this for his brother's sake.

For someday he would age, reflecting the signs of time on his brother's face; and then, Elrohir would inevitably understand what he, Elladan, had been driven to do. And his brother would suffer a torment worse than any wound, guilt gnawing at his soul and leaving him restless; spoiling the happiness he had with his wife and child. Maybe if he never knew, if Elladan left before the two of them became strangers, all would be easier?

Once in his room, Elladan looked around the room that had been his as long as he could remember, taking in every detail with new eyes. How would it feel to touch that small training bow that used to be his for the last time? The weapon had been made by Glorfindel for his twenty-fifth begetting day, and he had kept it for it sentimental value. Would it hurt to leave it behind?

Memories filled every corner. The eastern wall bore a series of marks that used to indicate his growth; the sheets on his bed had been soaked more than once with his blood and his childhood tears… This was home in its most intimate meaning, a sanctuary. And Elladan understood that he was not ready to leave it behind, to lose the comfort and protection it provided. Imladris was more than a shelter: the mere knowledge of its existence had often kept him warm during the long, cold nights on patrol. That, and the thought that Elrohir was there somewhere, safe and happy.

Discarding his tunic, Elladan slipped under the sheets, wondering whether Elrohir felt the same. And if he did, could he react to Elladan's brutal disappearance with something else than fear and desperation?

_I could not…_ _I would search all Middle-earth for you, brother, should our places be inverted…_

Elladan shifted in his bed, but the feeling of discomfort did not pass. He realized that there was no easy solution to his situation, no outcome where no-one would get hurt. Either way his brother would suffer, be it from guilt or worry; and he, Elladan, was unable to choose the smaller evil, caught between his own desires and the happiness he wished upon Elrohir. He had made his choice and sacrificed his immortal soul, relieved to think that he might not live to see his twin's death… _All in vain_ , he thought as he slowly sank into slumber. In the end, they would all pay for their dreams.

He was woken up by the sound of someone pounding on the door. Still half-asleep, he reached for his leggings and, fumbling with the fastenings, trudged to the door and opened it. "Yes?" he yawned.

He was met by the pale face of an elleth. 'Lord Elladan!' she stammered, wringing her hands anxiously. 'You must come quickly!'

She looked frightened, and this woke Elladan up for good. 'What is it?' he demanded, glancing towards his sword. 'Are we under attack?'

'It is Lady Wyn, my Lord. Please, Sidguil said you must come.'


	11. Chapter 11

\- Chapter 11 -

Running his trembling hands through his already dishevelled hair, Elladan rose from his seat. The night had been a long and dreary one, the minutes trickling by with unnatural slowness as Elladan had sat, forgotten and tortured by worry, in the antechamber of his brother's apartments. No-one had come out to tell him what had happened, no-one had remembered his presence… Until now.

Elladan brushed past the red-eyed elleth in the door. If a tomb had a smell, he thought, it would be this one: the unmoving, suffocating air filled with the last gasps of someone's agony. Even the lights were dim, the morning sunshine filtering through the curtains. Light had been denied entrance: light meant life, and life had no place in the chamber.

He glanced to the corner of the room, where Sidguil was leaning over the crib, his face tired but determined; Elladan did not spare him a second glance and came closer to the bed. There lay Wyn, her deformed body only partially covered by the blood-stained sheets, and Elladan understood that something had gone terribly wrong during the darkest hours of the night. He averted his gaze, feeling once again like an intruder despite having been called. He should not have seen her like this, he thought; but then again, no one could have foreseen that something like this would come to pass. His gaze came to rest on his brother, kneeling beside the bed and cradling his wife's hand against his face, kissing it cautiously as if those kisses could bind Wyn to this world, trace a path for her to retrace her steps to the living. Elrohir's face was blank, void of despair, and his twin's calm frightened Elladan more than his sorrow could ever have.

Elladan understood what had happened, though his mind refused to register it. Only hours earlier they had been talking, laughing together; now it seemed that he had walked into another's life, and witnessed the surrounding grief with a stranger's eyes. Elladan also understood that he came too late. The whole room was unnaturally quiet: no newborn's cry, the eerie silence smothered all desire to speak. Then he heard a breath, laboured and weak: the last gasp of a dying woman. Elladan saw Wyn's eyelids flutter and close, her thin hand relaxing against Elrohir's cheek. Without a word or a frown, his brother lay it down lovingly and covered it with his own. Then he closed his eyes and rested his head on the bed.

Pushing down the wave of sorrow and regret, Elladan came closer, waiting for his brother's permission to intrude into his mourning; but the minutes passed, and Elrohir gave no sign of grief. He remained motionless, breathing softly into the covers. Then Elladan took the liberty to kneel beside Elrohir. He had not had the time to know Wyn as well as he could have, and he regretted it now. She had been a kind woman; she had deserved more than the scarce signs of friendship he had given her.

His voice hoarse with emotion, he murmured a prayer to Elbereth for those who needed her: the one who needed a guide on her road, the one who needed her strength to catch a first breath, and the one who needed relief for his breaking heart. Like two guardian statues, they remained side by side.

'Come on, breathe!' Sidguil hissed through clenched teeth. 'Breathe!'

Elladan glanced to the healer. Sidguil looked up, and shook his head, his ancient eyes sad. 'Try again!' snapped Elladan, wincing inwardly at how loud and crude his voice had sounded in the silence of the room. Then he turned his attention to his brother. 'Elrohir...' He searched for words that would be worth listening to; words that could bring his brother back from the shadows he had consciously wandered into. Elladan had heard enough stories of broken-hearted death, seen enough of those shadows in the eyes of his own father: he did not know whether it was still possible, given Elrohir's choice, but in doubt he had to act fast. 'Elrohir, your child needs you,' he murmured. 'He needs you now, you, his father. Your child is dying, Elrohir! You have no right to give in to despair. Not now!'

'It is over,' Sidguil whispered.

Elladan dared not look away from his brother, towards the crib where had lain what was left of their hopes. It was too grievous, too heartbreaking to envision, and he pushed the thought away, concentrating on the living.

But what would he say now? Once again, they were left alone, with only each other for friends and family. Their dreams had died in this very room, swallowed by the mortality they now both belonged to. Cautiously, he reached out to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder. 'Come, brother. You must come with me...'

Elrohir's shoulder was completely limp. 'Elrohir?' His heart freezing in his chest, Elladan dug his fingers into his brother's arm. How long had they remained still? 'Elrohir!' His brother's body was still warm beneath his touch; a fading trace of the life it once held, and Elladan drew back in horror. Slowly he stood up, overcome by the irrepressible urge to get away from what Elrohir had become, looking over the scene with haggard despair. He had not anticipated this, not even imagined the risk still existed. _Elrohir is gone_. Gone, certainly the very instant his heart had truly perceived that Wyn was dead. And no brotherly love could fill the gap she had left. Elladan had not stood a chance.

'What do you want me to do now?' he whispered. 'I have nothing more left...'

His brother's body slipped to the floor, Elrohir's grey eyes now empty, fixed on something Elladan could not see; his lips were smiling. And suddenly the silence of the room was broken by a keening wail. In his crib, the little orphan was breathing, defying the healer's sentence and death itself; his tiny fists clenched, he protested against his harsh arrival into the world.

* * *

A cold autumn rain poured down from the night sky, soaking the late traveller to the bone and making him hurry into the welcoming warmth of the nearest tavern. The streets of Aston were dark and narrow, justifying the town's reputation as one of the smaller and less recommendable settlements by the Great East Road. Faingil stepped uncertainly down the slippery cobble-stoned alley, and Elladan pulled his precious burden closer. He was trying to avoid any jolts that could wake the newborn, clutching it with the terrified caution of those not used to holding children. But the baby slept soundly now, a small blessing in the surrounding darkness: Elladan knew not how much more of his cries he could stand before going insane with pain.

Naerind: a sad memory indeed and a hard name to bear. Even now, all red and wrinkled and so frighteningly fragile, Elrohir's son looked just like his father. Cursed resemblance, it twisted the knife of grief in Elladan's breast each time he looked at his nephew. _Why me?_ he wanted to scream as he rode through the gloomy town. _Why am I the one left alone?_

Elladan shivered as a trickle of cold water ran down his neck. The journey was folly, he realized it now; now matter how short, even during better weather it was dangerous for a newborn. But he could not remain in Imladris any longer. All the good memories of warmth and safety had vanished, replaced by a sensation of dread. The empty home did not remind him of the life that used to inhabit it anymore. Now it stood cold and dark; a tomb.

Besides, the child could not stay in Imladris either. It needed human milk; and the home's only goat was going dry. It was now up to Elladan to find food for his nephew.

Grief had to be put aside before this imperative, though Elladan longed to shake off this new obligation. But he was trapped, trapped by his sense of duty. He had to endure the sorrow and take care of a child that reminded him each second that his brother was gone. There was no honourable escape, no relief to be found. Elladan looked at the sleeping infant: he knew that he was supposed to feel something: love, endearment… But his heart was numb, bleeding out its strength; soon it would be completely empty, Elladan mused, and then what would he become? A wraith, mayhap, condemned to dwell on this earth until his time was spent? No, that was not an option. He had to live, to remain strong for this child, even though the task seemed impossibly hard and torturous. He had to succeed, if only for the love of Elrohir.

Trapped. He was doomed to the loneliness of a last survivor, with no satisfaction in revenge or retribution; for how does one best fate? Even the name he had given his nephew now taunted him. It had seemed at the time a small revenge against life; now it was one more reminder of his grief.

Elladan pulled on the reins in front of the Greasy Squeal, one of the cleaner taverns of Aston. The owner was known to Elladan as an honest and loyal man, though not very brave nor smart. He was also well-informed of the town's gossip, which made him the best person Elladan could turn to with his question.

The stableboy did not hurry to come out into the rain to take Faingil's reins; Elladan waited under the downpour, shoulders hunched against the icy water and held Naerind close under the protection of his cloak until the lad deigned to come out. Then he entered the tavern, cursing under his breath.

The small room was crowded because of the rain, local farmers and travelling merchants alike seeking shelter and a good pint of ale to warm them up. Elladan walked to the counter and waited until the tavern owner turned around to serve him. He felt uncomfortable, wary; so burdened he was vulnerable, a most unpleasant sensation for a warrior. His free hand naturally came to rest on the hilt of his sword, and he forced himself to pull it away. It would not do, after all, if his intentions were misinterpreted.

'What can I get you, kind sir?' the owner smiled finally, wiping his hands on his vast apron. 'Some ale, perhaps, to warm your bones?'

Elladan shook his head and, glancing around to ensure that no-one was looking too closely, leaned forward to lay a golden coin on the counter. 'It is information I seek,' he murmured.

The man's eyes widened briefly before he snatched the coin away with a dexterity surprising for one his age and build. 'Whatever you wish to know?' he said, his voice just as low.

* * *

Elladan examined the small house with a critical eye. Shabby and dilapidated, it seemed to lean against the neighbouring home for support; the thatched roof was in dire need of more straw, the tiny windows barred with only a few rays of light filtering through the old, ill-fitted blinds. The person living here was in a dire situation, Elladan could tell; he hoped this would play in his favour.

He knocked and heard the shuffling of feet; then the door opened. 'Yes?' asked the young woman warily, her eyes examining him briefly before glancing to the darkness of the street behind him. 'What do you want?'

She could not be much older than twenty, Elladan realised. Tall and unnaturally thin, the young woman looked ill; there were shadows under her dark eyes, but he knew they had not been caused by hunger and poverty. He pulled his hood from his face with his free hand. 'My name is Elladan,' he said, bowing slightly. 'I need your help.' And he lifted the baby into the light.

Naerind grimaced, displeased to be awoken. His small nose wrinkled in protest and he inhaled deeply before starting to cry. The plaintive wail echoing down the empty alley. The young woman paled, her eyes widened in shock. 'What do you... No! No, I can't. I can't!' She backed up, her face twisted in a mask of agony. 'Take it away!'

'Please!' Elladan took a step forward, stopping as she grabbed the edge of the door, obviously intent on slamming it shut to his face. 'Please, this child needs your help! He is hungry; without milk he will die!'

'How dare you bring him here?' hissed the young woman. 'After what... After I...' In the dim light from inside, Elladan saw that tears were streaming down her face. 'I cannot!' she sobbed. 'It is too painful... I am sorry.'

'Please! I beg you, help him!' cried Elladan, but it was too late. The door slammed shut before him and he was left in the rain and the dark, Naerind screaming in hunger in his arms. He pulled the struggling baby closer, swallowing the lump of despair that had formed in his throat. 'Shush, little one,' he whispered, 'stop crying.'

As his nephew only wailed harder, Elladan felt his heart breaking. 'Please, little one, don't cry. I feel your pain.' He reached out to caress the soft skin of Naerind's cheek, his hand trembling at the fragility of the newborn. So small, so vulnerable was the child, unable to speak for itself, entirely dependent on him, Elladan. And just like him, alone in the whole world.

'I miss them too,' he murmured. 'I miss them too.' He pulled the sheets closer around the tiny body, afraid that his charge would catch a cold. 'But it is you and I, now. I will take care of you.'

At his back, the door opened again. 'He... He seems really hungry...' whispered the young woman. Her cheeks glistened with tears in the dim light coming from inside, and her eyes were haunted. But still she took a tentative step towards them. 'Maybe I can... help.'

Elladan sighed in relief and turned around. 'Thank you,' he said. 'I am forever in your debt if you do.'

She nodded uncertainly. 'I can try,' she muttered, glancing briefly at Naerind. Again, the ghost of grief passed on her face. She shifted on her feet, looking unsure about what to do next. 'You might as well come in,' she offered finally, gesturing to the small house.

Elladan smiled in gratitude, relieved to take the child out of the rain; he had to bend over in order to walk through the door. Inside, the house was clean and warm, although poverty-stricken. The child's cries died out as the baby opened its eyes, intrigued by the light.

'What is his name?' The young woman approached, her steps wary. She seemed to want to reach out and hold back at the same time, like a hungry man before a baker's stall.

'Naerind,' muttered Elladan.

'Naerind.' She smiled sadly. Elladan saw that her pretty face was creased with worry lines. 'I am Gaid.'


	12. Epilogue

\- Chapter 12 / Epilogue -

_Five years later_

The patches of tall, yellow grass swayed gently in the lazy wind; the earth was recovering from a harsh winter, yet the air already smelled of warmth and spring. The little boy ran laughing through the field, the sun reflecting on his long, dark hair. As he approached the oak tree he slowed down, coming to a respectful halt beside a man kneeling before the ancient tree. 'Ada?' he asked cautiously. 'Why does the wind blow?'

The man smiled. Fair-skinned and dark-haired, he seemed to be the boy's older brother. 'Because the Belain have made it so,' he replied. 'Do you remember what I told you about the Creation of the World?'

The boy wrinkled his nose. 'Nooo!' he wailed, a smile breaking through the grimace. 'Not that one! It's boring!'

'Boring?' repeated the man incredulously. 'Which one do you find to your liking, then?'

'The story of Glorfindel!' cried the boy. 'Glorfindel and the Balrog!'

'A good choice,' chuckled the man, standing up. 'I used to like this story as well, when I was your age...' He glanced one last time at the tree, and the two graves that lay in the shade cast by its majestic canopy. The boy waited for an instant but, with the impatience of his youth, soon raced away; Elladan shook his head. 'You would have loved him, brother,' he said quietly. 'He looks just like you...'

Sighing, he turned away and, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, searched the field for his adoptive son. 'Naerind!' he called. 'Come, we are leaving!'

Elladan strode down the narrow path, Naerind racing around him in circles, chasing the lazy insects that tried to gather sustenance from the fields; his laughter echoed down the valley, and soothed Elladan's dark mood.

Nothing would ever fill the hole left by Elrohir's death. Suddenly, Elladan had been alone in the world, alone forever: the road to Valinor was closed to him because of the choice he had made. He wondered whether things could have been different if Elrohir had listened to what he had tried to tell him, the day Elrohir had left for Black Oak. Or if he had had the courage – or selfishness? – to tell his brother of his own choice... Would Elladan have been able to bring him back from his grief? Elrohir had never felt the change in Elladan, had never known that he was not alone in his mortality... Could it be that Elladan had made the wrong decision? Could it be that Elrohir's death was his fault?

The little boy who came running back to spontaneously hug him reminded him so strongly of his twin that it was painful. Naerind was so full of joy and innocence, so playful and mischievous that Elladan sometimes had the impression of seeing a young Elrohir prancing around; he half-expected to see the younger version of himself come tearing out of a bush as well.

'Have you ever seen Glorfindel?' asked Naerind, craning his neck to look into Elladan's eyes. He chuckled. 'Indeed, I have seen him,' he said. 'He ever was a dear friend...' Naerind gaped at him in admiration. 'You were Glorfindel's friend?' He halted so suddenly in Elladan's path that Elladan had to dig his heels into the earth in order not to collide with the boy. 'How was he?' Naerind exclaimed, grabbing Elladan's cloak and clinging to it. 'Was he brave?'

Catching the boy by the shoulders, Elladan spun him around and gave him a gentle shove, propelling him out of his way. 'That he was,' he said. 'He rescued Frodo from the Ringwraiths!' Naerind watched him with wide eyes, and Elladan decided to use this newfound worship to his advantage. 'Yes, he was very brave, Glorfindel. He even ate his vegetables.'

'Beuark!' Naerind made a disgusted face pranced off: Glorfindel's prestige had apparently drastically dropped in his eyes.

The mimic was so full of childlike spontaneity that Elladan laughed and took off after Naerind, caught him and lifted him off the ground, enjoying his excited shrieks. He kissed the dark hair, the delicate temples, inhaling the sweet scent of his adoptive son. Sometimes he forced himself to remember that Naerind was not his own blood, that he owed him the truth... Yet the pride he felt when the boy would call him Ada or fall asleep in his arms discouraged him. _A few more years_ , he would think, _I will tell him when he is older_...

Truth was, Naerind had become everything for him, his fragility and need for love forcing Elladan out of his brooding, reminding him his own words about duty. He had found a new quiet joy in caring for the boy, and his life had acquired its lost purpose. And Elladan could see now that in each one of Naerind's smiles, each joke, each steady breath when he slept, Elrohir lived on.

\- The End -

**Author's Note:**

> The fate of the Peredhil twins seems a somewhat contradicted matter: either their father's departure automatically made them mortal (in which case this story goes against canon), or they had the possibility to delay their choice. In this short story, they are dealing with the choice: mortality, or to join their family beyond the sea. It's my take on what could have happened.
> 
> This was inspired by a novel by a russian writer, Alexander Grin, called "Scarlet Sails" (a beautiful story, highly recommended for all the Romance readers).


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